


Fragments

by Oceanbourne



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:12:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9046733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oceanbourne/pseuds/Oceanbourne
Summary: None of the gold and glitter impressed her, nor the hundred repetitions of the supersaturated doctrine of the Measured Tread that clotted their veins. But Jarvan’s question - it is just a pinprick on her thumb, but Irelia cannot seem to stop the need to tell him, to show him the horrible truth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on Tumblr under my account willoftheblades but yeah this ended up being long enough for a one-shot fic.
> 
> Man I'd love to get back into writing fanfiction regularly!

The stars have not come out tonight. Not that the Demacians appear to need them. The amount of torches brought out to the festival square could bring the sun’s radiance to shame.

When Irelia sees the outline of a crown adorning the shadow that approaches her at the end of the promenade, she groans. But she has no way to avoid him - there’s only one way to walk along the boardwalk and reach the corner where she sits with legs pulled up to her chest at the base of the statue of some Demacian hero.

She figured that if anyone would come looking for her, it would be Sachiko first. Perhaps the festival of lights had produced sufficient distraction for her. The girl always did enjoy spectacles. In any case, Irelia can’t ignore the prince’s concern for her forever, and she looks up at the approaching figure, Jarvan’s silhouette darkened by torchlight, with misty eyes. The eye contact lasts for scarcely a second before she diverts her attention towards the potted plants across the passageway.

Jarvan sighs, posture torn between looking for a seat beside Irelia or to remain standing. Dressed in the same way as the military generals and the nobles attending the gala, the prince appears rather professional this night, but all Irelia notices is that crown sitting atop his head, a perpetual reminder of his connection to royalty. Irelia stays as still as she can, hoping he takes the hint and leaves soon. The less he lingers around, the less effort she will need to resist him.

“Perhaps I might keep you company here.”

Irelia looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “I… was not feeling well. I thought the lake breeze might help clear my head.”

Jarvan takes a step closer. “You are ill, Captain Lito?” He clears his throat. “You need only have given the word, and we would have arranged to bring a healer on-site…”

“I’m fine,” Irelia interrupts him. “Thank you.”

In the distance, she can still hear the sounds of minstrels performing renowned Demacian concertos. She curses her experience in orchestra, for she cannot help but follow the melody along in her head.

“Please, just call me Irelia, Your Majesty.”

“Irelia it is, then.” Jarvan remains standing, looking down upon her, out of place like a design on a quilt that one can’t go back and fix. “I regret that we did not have more chances to converse when we first welcomed you to the royal palace. It seems either of our duties had called us away before we could get to know each other better.”

Irelia attempts to pass off the shiver that runs through her body as an effect brought on by the lake breeze. When she had arrived in Demacia, Irelia did not take kindly to the extravagant opulence of the royal palace. And the crown believed that a procession by their vast army would impress their Ionian guests the best. It only served to trouble Irelia’s mood more about the mysterious whereabouts of her brother and the lack of Demacian response to the Noxian invasion. So she had given herself as many excuses to avoid day-to-day life in the court itself, travelling to the many towns and villages around the capital in hopes of surrounding herself with more recognizable life.

“It is a shame,” comes her hollow echo. Irelia manages another look at Jarvan’s face, and her eyes widen in surprise. It looks considerably less tense when not framed by his armor. She had only noticed a scowl permanently affixed to his face whenever they passed by each other, except for the occasional formality. Now Jarvan’s eyes betray some kind of sympathy, or at least, a wish for understanding. Almost like…

Stop, Irelia chides herself. Someone like him wasn’t what you needed. No matter how much she tried to deny it, war ended up being her greatest teacher.

“Shouldn’t they need you at the festival?” Jarvan lets her sit comfortably in her silence, and Irelia thanks him for that, at least. She imagined him to come up with a hundred reasons why she should rejoin and share in the bountiful glory of Demacia, but instead he has let her dictate the pace of their meeting.

“Me?” Jarvan asks, raising a finger to his chest. He shakes his head. “This is the orchestra’s night to shine. And between my mother and my father, there’s more than enough Lightshield representation at the feast.”

He decides now the most opportune time to take a seat in the shadow of a statue opposite Irelia, planting feet across from hers. “But I noticed you walking over here, and I thought you needed someone more.”

Irelia hides back her scoff. “Someone as distinguished as the crown prince?”

Grimacing, Jarvan’s eyes raise to the headpiece. “This?” He picks it up and sets it on the ground, shrugging. “Let us not stand on ceremony with each other. If I am to call you Irelia, you can just call me Jarvan. Save the titles for my royal father. Hardly anyone would mix us up, anyways.”

Irelia considers for a second, then nods. She raises her face up as if to address the prince, but then she lowers it again, antsy fingers fidgeting while she stares at the stone patterns of the walkway.

“Ah, I get it. You aren’t a fan of social gatherings, either,” Jarvan offers.

Irelia stiffens. She hasn’t expected their conversation to get this far, let alone Jarvan to pry into what really ails her. Before this night, she believed any sort of deep conversation with him would not yield much fruit. Even now, she believes any sort of insult to Demacian culture would also extend to injuring his pride.

“I do not think the subject matter of the celebration and I are… very compatible.”

She doesn’t take personal offense to the Demacian practices. Their commemorations have probably lasted longer than the history of Ionia itself. But the festival dug into specific scars - wounds that Irelia knows no person in the crowd would ever understand as acutely as she does.

Jarvan frowns in his attempt to decipher her meaning. “As far as I know, the court scribes had double-checked the content of the event to ensure it did not brook any offense towards Ionian customs…” Then it seems to hit him, and he raises a hand to the side of his face. “Ah. I am not the most familiar with your story, Capt- Irelia. But I can see where this might touch on sensitive areas.”

The frigid breeze comes again, eliciting goosebumps on Irelia’s arms. She would have worn a dress shirt and slacks again, if she knew she would have spent the majority of the night far away from the torches. Trying her best not to shiver, she rubs her arms slowly, but the contact of material being draped around her shoulders causes Irelia to gasp and look up.

Jarvan kneels beside her, offering his coat. “Don’t worry about it. You’re not the only one who has spent a lot of festivals aloof and letting your contemplation waste the night away.”

“This is —” Inappropriate. Unnecessary. Several other choice words come to Irelia’s throat, but they hang in her larynx, not finding the strength to object. She fits her arms through the sleeves, quickly finding it too large for her frame. Standing up in order to fully accomodate the garment’s size, she walks away from Jarvan, navigating the buttons.

“I don’t mind what you do with it,” he chuckles, rising up to join her. “My wardrobe is not high on my list of priorities.”

Now that she finds herself pulled from her seat of gloom, Irelia is at a loss at what to do next. She occupies herself by heading over to the grassy knoll, overlooking the slope that descends down to the lake shore.

“Our ancient war hymns love to commemorate sacrifice,” Jarvan continues from where he last left off. “They speak of death as an honorable thing. Yes, I’ve been on countless battlefields, but even I cannot speak for the ones who look into the eyes of death.” Irelia can feel the remorse slip into his tone. Why take upon your nation’s sins by himself? He should not feel guilty for the sacrifices others choose to offer.

(That is what the Duchess told her, when Irelia wailed into her pillow and declared herself unworthy to survive when so many others had given just as much, if not more, for Ionia.)

“Have I said too much?” His shadow takes a step back in the moonlight.

Irelia turns to him, uncovering her hands from oversized sleeves. “Do you think it is a privilege for men to die in battle, defending their homeland?”

When Jarvan answers, it sounds like the wilting of a desert flower gone months without rain.

“I lament every death.” His eyes look off in the distance, to something behind Irelia. “I like to think they stayed proud as they died, but…” He turns his gaze back to her. “Is that true?”

The icy steel of his observance threatens to unnerve Irelia. None of the Demacians had actually intimidated her. None of the gold and glitter impressed her, nor the hundred repetitions of the supersaturated doctrine of the Measured Tread that clotted their veins. But Jarvan’s question - it is just a pinprick on her thumb, but Irelia cannot seem to stop the need to tell him, to show him the horrible truth, from flowing out of her.

“I wish my pride hadn’t slipped from me.” Perhaps the strength of a soldier is not what they can wield, but what they can prevent from letting go.

Jarvan says nothing, and Irelia begins to turn away, but strong, comforting hands wrap around her shoulders, and with wide eyes she finds the prince’s chest in front of her face, the collar of his dress shirt in the center of her vision. She’s rooted to her spot, unable to push away, but while she lingers in his embrace, Irelia realizes she doesn’t necessarily wish to leave.

“I apologize,” Jarvan says, hastily pulling away and coughing into his sleeve. “I merely wished to help in any way I could - I was too forward.”

“No,” Irelia murmurs, turning to look back at the torches by the concert area burning in the distance. “It was alright. Your Maj- er, Jarvan?” Her eyes are a little more colorful this time. “Could you escort me back to the celebration? I’m feeling a bit better now.”

He bows, extending his arm. “Of course, Irelia.”


End file.
